


glass, and porcelain, and adamantine steel

by solfell



Series: we grow. it hurts at first. [twill winterborn] [3]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solfell/pseuds/solfell
Summary: Works that include most, if not all, of my main OCsCross-posted from tumblr.
Relationships: Original Character(s) & Original Character(s)
Series: we grow. it hurts at first. [twill winterborn] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638889





	1. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twill joins Kishore's mercenary group AU

Twill shuffles into the tavern.

It’s midday, so the place is teeming with the lunch rush. Waitstaff filter in and out of the kitchens while a barkeep attends to the cluster of patrons at the bar. There’s a low din of conversation and silverware clicking. Twill scans the room, doing her best not to look at any of the patrons who might be staring at her.

The person she’s looking for is in the far corner. Her arms are loosely folded over her chest. Against the wall beside her is a quarterstaff nearly as long as she is tall. Twill almost considers turning back.

Kishore Maallinen is one of the tallest people Twill has ever encountered. Then again, Twill hasn’t met any goliaths before, and from what she’s heard they’re usually tall. Maybe Kishore is just average. Twill doesn’t know. Twill’s the tallest from her clan, so meeting another tall person is a bit jarring.

Twill hesitates again, but forces herself to cross the room. Ultimately, her brain decides this is a good choice. Having to look up when speaking to someone is a novelty Twill could get used to.

“Um, excuse me, I saw your job post,” Twill says. “On the board in the market. You’re Kishore, right?”

Kishore has skin like marble–pale grey streaked with a darker pattern. Her eyes and hair are dark. The only real colors on her are the reddish-orange stone hanging from her neck and the deep blue of her robes.

“I am,” she says, voice low and even. She gives Twill a long, somber, analytical look.

Silence stretches, and Twill is about to start fidgeting or babbling when Kishore speaks again. “How soon will you be ready to leave?”

Twill blinks. “Right now. I mean, whenever you want.”

The corner of Kishore’s mouth pulls into a there-and-gone smile. “Take a seat.” She tilts her head a bit, gesturing to a nearby table. “I’ll speak with you when the others arrive.”

Twill nods and leans her glaive next to Kishore’s quarterstaff before she scuttles over to said table.

Mercenary work isn’t something Twill ever imagined for herself. If she had her way, she would’ve never left the wilds. The biggest downside of living alone in the middle of nowhere is that, well, she was alone in the middle of nowhere. It makes for a lonely existence.

Twill doesn’t have many skills besides hunting and trapping. Sure, she grew up among reindeer herders and other capable folk, but they were all human and she wasn’t. That meant that she was never apprenticed to anyone. Twill can fight, though, and in a city like this one, mercenary work is her best option.

A handful of other people approach Kishore much like Twill did. From the corner of her eye, Twill watches as Kishore scans each newcomer, then shakes her head. A dwarf offers a respectful nod when Kishore rejects him; a pair of humans turn away with incensed huffs. There’s an elf, too, but Twill can’t see his expression when he leaves.

There’s a sinking feeling in her gut; she isn’t sure what she might’ve gotten herself into.

—

Twill’s been with the Stoneblade Company for about three months now, which is the longest she’s ever stayed with one group. They’re a fairly small company–too small for actual military work, but large enough to investigate strange occurrences or act as extra security for caravans or events.

The pay is good, and Twill likes the chance to travel. In the last town they passed through, she and Hope went to the tavern for a few drinks. When the barkeep saw the Stoneblade insignia on their armor, he said their first round was on the house. Hope explained that the Stoneblades helped clear out a merrow infestation in the town’s reservoir a few months before Twill joined.

It’s comforting to know that she’s part of something larger than herself, and that the insignia she chooses to wear has more importance to others than her race or appearance.

Overall, Twill likes her fellow mercenaries, and they seem to like her, but there’s this small voice in the back of her head that says, “Kishore is annoyed with you and barely tolerates your presence on a good day.”

So, when Kishore mentions that there will be a dinner at her house, saying, “Most of the company will be there. You are invited as well,” Twill is excited and then deeply anxious. She doesn’t know if the invitation is a sincere one.

Kishore doesn’t smile much. A lot of people think Roshanak is the captain of the Stoneblades, because she’s gregarious and carries a pair of scimitars. Roshanak is Kishore’s second, though, and once on a job there’s no mistaking who leads the company.

Kishore’s house is a fifteen minute walk from the city gates; Twill’s never been there before, but Elspeth pointed it out one time as they were coming back from a job. From the road, it looked like a simple farmhouse. Now, as she gets closer, she realizes it’s a little more than that.

Honestly, Kishore’s house makes the cabin Twill grew up in look like a pathetic hovel. This is a home, not just a place to sleep. No wonder most of Kishore’s family still lives with her. It must be a lovely, warm place. Based on the bits and pieces Twill’s heard about the family’s past, they sorely deserve a good home.

Panic seizes Twill. She nearly turns around and heads back to the city. Surely, she’s not supposed to be here. This isn’t something she gets to have, is it? Friends, a safe place, good company?

The windows are bright with light, and shadows flicker and move behind the panes. There’s a soft hum of voices, punctuated with the rise and fall of laughter. Well, at least she won’t be the only one there. Gods, she can imagine it: her and Kishore sitting at opposite ends of a table in complete silence.

Twill has a bottle of halfway decent wine and a loaf of bread tucked in a basket. She’s never been invited to any sort of dinner or party, but she’s heard that people bring gifts with them when they visit someone’s house. Maybe she should’ve asked what was needed, or just brought flowers? Does Kishore like flowers?

The front door flies open before Twill even steps onto the porch.

“Twill, darling, we saw you walking up the path,” Roshanak calls. “Come in!”

“Am I late?” she wonders.

Roshanak puts a comforting arm around Twill’s shoulders. “No, not at all. Right on time, I’d say.”

Apparently Kishore wasn’t lying when she said most of the company would be present. With Kishore’s family, and likely their friends, there are over two dozen people in the living room and kitchen area. The back door opens outwards; more people spill outside onto the back porch and lawns.

“Twill!” several voices call out. She’s pretty sure she hears Elspeth among them.

She toes off her boots and leaves them beside the veritable mountain of shoes by the door. Roshanak ushers her into the front room and takes the basket from her arm. It joins a few other collected food items and drinks on the table.

“You’ve not met the rest of Kishore’s family, have you?” Roshanak wonders. She hooks Twill’s arm around her elbow.

“No, not yet,” she says.

“Well, let’s make some introductions and then I’ll turn you loose. Food should be ready soon.”

Elspeth appears at Twill’s elbow and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. “Glad you made it! Come find me later, okay?” Then, she hands Twill a tankard full of mead and flounces back to the circle of people she left. Emery, Kestrel, and Hope are among them, and they offer waves and nods when Twill looks their way. She smiles back.

—

From the kitchen window, Kishore tracks Roshanak and Twill’s path. Right now, they’re out on the back porch, talking with Meera and Rahul.

Neelam and Gwen are further out, setting up the last of the chairs and tables that dot the lawn. They were meant to be finished before guests arrived, but that was a long shot. Ever since the weather began to warm, Neelam’s spent most of her time with Gwen and the other druids. Kishore doesn’t begrudge her the time she spends away, if only because it makes her happy.

Gwen leans over and says something to Neelam, who looks up. Even from this distance, her expression goes from concentrated to intrigued. She begins to make her way towards her siblings.

Twill’s shoulders are tense. She’s looking more than a little overwhelmed, which is why Kishore hesitated to invite her in the first place. Twill is exceptional in a fight, but flounders when faced with crowds or new people. Kishore understands that better than most.

Ro’s presence seems to calm her; when Neelam joins the others, Twill leans into Roshanak’s shoulder. 

“Kishore,” Hadrean says from his post at the stove. “Are they done yet?”

“Gwen is finishing up,” she says, still looking outside.

“Mom!” Ameya darts to Kishore’s side and loops her arms around her middle. “Mom, I’m hungry and Day is too skinny to go much longer without food!”

The distinct sound of Cihro snickering comes from somewhere in the hall.

“Nearly there, girlie,” Hadrean says, and even though he’s turned away, there’s a smile in his voice.

“Ugh, I hate that answer.”

“You could always give us a hand, if you’re so concerned,” Kishore says.

Ameya’s face does something complicated. “I think I’ll be okay for a little bit longer,” she says in a rush, and backs out of the room.

“You’re helping with dishes later,” Kishore reminds her.

“I know, I know.”

Hadrean offers a good-natured scoff. “You’re all lucky I do well under pressure.”

Kishore hums an agreement, and begins to gather plates.

Roshanak brings Twill inside a few minutes later.

“Do need any help?” Ro pokes her head into the kitchen to ask.

Hadrean’s setting various dishes and utensils out on the counter. “Grab the silverware?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, Twill, I thought I heard you arrive. Do you mind fetching the bread I have warming in the oven?”

Twill nods and puts on the oven mitts that hang above the stove.

“Where is Ameya?” Roshanak wonders while opening the silverware drawer.

Kishore shrugs. “I suspect she and Cihro are sneaking around, picking pockets.”

Twill’s eyes go wide. “What?” She frowns. “Wait, really?”

Kishore shakes her head. “Ameya’s quite good at removing things, but Cihro is trying to show her how to plant items as well.”

Roshanak gives Kishore a fond look. “I reckon they’ll both be in a bit of trouble before the evening ends.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She almost misses when Cihro was intimidated by her. It’s been years since then.

“How old is she? Your daughter?” Twill wonders.

“She’ll be thirteen in the summer,” Kishore replies. “Initially, I didn’t want Cihro teaching her anything until she was fifteen or sixteen, but they’re both fairly persuasive.”

“I was hunting on my own around her age,” Twill offers.

“It wasn’t her capabilities I doubted, but her maturity,” Kishore says.

Roshanak rolls her eyes. “She’s allowed some immaturity, don’t you think? Besides, I learned a few dubious skills when I was very young. They’ve served me quite well.”

Twill bites at her lip; Kishore gets the impression that she’s wondering if she should speak up or not. Just when Kishore thinks she’ll keep her silence, Twill says in a quiet voice, “She has a lot of people looking out for her, right? She’s loved, and that means a lot, both for her safety and her growth.”

“Well said, love.” Roshanak beams.

Kishore catches Twill’s eye and nods.

—

Elspeth pulls Twill over to a table she commandeered, and has her sit between Neelam and Meera. A hush falls over all the tables while people eat, but when the dregs of dessert are all that’s left, the volume rises. The sun sets.

Elspeth is at the head of her table, like a noble holding court. Most of the younger guests surround her, so perhaps the comparison is more accurate than not. Kestrel beside her, mostly quiet, but they have an affectionate smile.

Kishore is sat two tables over, and she finds her eye drawn to her sisters and Twill, talking among themselves. The tightness in Twill’s shoulders is long gone, aided by mead and, possibly, Meera’s smile.

“You shouldn’t worry,” Hadrean says into his cup of tea. He’s to Kishore’s left, and doesn’t look like he’s going to be getting up anytime soon. That’s good, since he’s been cooking since midday. He’s not one of the Stoneblades, not officially, and he refused to join the one time Kishore offered. Even so, he is involved with the company–either by cooking or giving advice or training raw recruits. 

“She can’t help it.” Roshanak’s on her other side, and she flashes a winsome grin. “Remember how she was when Kestrel started coming with us?”

“I do, I do,” Hadrean says. He side-eyes Kishore. “Mother hen.”

Roshanak laughs.

Kishore purses her lips. That’s rich, coming from him. “If I don’t care about the well-being of the people I command, what kind of captain am I?” This is a conversation they’ve had before. Kishore sighs. “Neither of you are any different.”

“Yes, but I think poor Twill isn’t sure of your opinion of her,” Roshanak remarks. “She fidgets more around you.”

“I’ve noticed,” Kishore says. “Suggestions?”

“Don’t push,” Hadrean warns. “Let her come to you.”

Roshanak makes a noise of derision. “And who knows if that will happen? Twill is a person, not an easily-spooked horse.”

Hadrean and Roshanak continue to bicker, as is their wont. Kishore leaves them to it, and begins clearing the plates at her table.

Elspeth cajoles Day into getting his violin, and he strikes up a jaunty melody. People flock to a clear area on the lawn, others rush to gather their instruments from inside. Soon enough, Elspeth and Roshanak are leading everyone through a dance traditional to the region.

Meera pulls Twill out onto the grass, and begins showing her the steps. Ameya leaps through the crowd, clenched hand held high, while Emery chases after her. She’s taken something from him again, and now that she’s taller than him, she’s also taking advantage of her longer legs.

This was meant to be a simple, quiet dinner, but Kishore comes to terms with the fact that she’s hosting a party. She shouldn’t have expect anything different, and she’s oddly pleased by that. The sight of people dancing warms her, from the center of her chest, radiating outwards.

—

Epiphany manages to convince Hadrean to dance, and everyone cheers. The uproar gives Twill the opportunity to slip away and head towards the house without being noticed. Or at least noticed much.

The sky’s gone dark, but there are lanterns and light spells that keep the backyard bright. It’s on the cooler side, with a breeze drifting in from the south. Stars are out in force, and Twill nearly trips up the porch steps while looking at them. She sees the same sky in the city, but it’s not the same.

Kishore is on the back porch with her elbows propped on the railing. She nods at Twill, who offers a quick, shaky smile. Twill ducks inside for a glass of water and maybe a couple slices of bread. She’s full, but anything Kishore bakes is worth the stomach ache.

She takes a deep breath before going outside again. She likes these people, loves many of them, but it’s a lot to take in. The noise, the crowds, the new setting–she wasn’t allowed to have this back home. She’s under-prepared to deal with it now.

Outside, Twill notices that Kishore’s shifted slightly to the left. She’s standing to her full height, and has her arms gently folded over her middle, hands cupping her elbows. The way she’s standing, the space she’s made, it looks like she’s expecting someone to join her at the railing. Twill lingers in the doorway, before surging forward.

Her palms press against the railing. She watches a single cloud drift across the sky, navy blue against star-splattered black. A strange thought crosses her mind–that cloud must be so brave, to be traveling alone at night.

Twill peeks up at Kishore through her bangs. “Can I, um, can I ask you something?” she wonders.

“Yes,” Kishore replies, and inclines her head. She meets Twill’s gaze. Her expression is calm and attentive.

“Why me? I mean, when I first joined up, you turned away a few others. Why did you let me stay?”

Kishore takes a moment, and seems to be considering her words. “I could tell that you are an earnest, capable person. You were looking for a job. The others were looking for glory.”

“Oh,” Twill sighs.

“I’ve yet to regret my decision,” Kishore continues. Another pause. “I’m glad you decided to join us tonight.”

“Really?”

A slight crease forms between Kishore’s eyebrows. “Of course.”

“I’m not–” Twill takes a deep breath.

Kishore doesn’t speak, but she makes a soft humming sound, as if acknowledging Twill’s false start.

“I’m not used to being wanted,” Twill blurts. “I like the other Stoneblades, and we get along, you know? But that’s work, like you said. I’ve never had many friends.”

“You are an asset to the company, and we all trust you in the field,” Kishore says. “Many of us come from similar backgrounds–forgotten, lost, stolen, or alone. You have a place with the Stoneblades; do not doubt that. Your position was not meant to be tenuous or temporary.”

Twill nods and swallows thickly. Don’t cry, she tells herself, even though Kishore’s seen her cry before. Multiple times. “Thank you.”

“It’s the truth,” Kishore says. She rests a hand on Twill’s arm; Twill leans into her touch. Slowly, Kishore’s arm comes up to wrap around Twill’s shoulders, a gentle warmth. “You are welcome here, Twill.”

Twill tries to smile, and finds it comes easier than she thought it would. “That’s not something I hear a whole lot.”

“Are they treating you well at the tavern?”

“Yeah. I don’t really like staying in cities, but it’s nice being in a place where I can come and go as I please,” she says. “And people don’t stare.”

Kishore lets out an amused huff. “Understandable.”

Twill leans away to meet Kishore’s gaze. “I know you spar with Roshanak and Hadrean sometimes, and I was wondering if I could spar with you, too?” she asks. “Whenever is convenient for you! Or not, if you’re busy.”

“I’m not so busy that I can’t make time for you,” Kishore says. “I would be glad to spar. You and Hadrean have some similarities, but I welcome new challenges. Be aware–Elspeth and Epiphany will try to make a spectacle of it.”

“I imagine they’ll be placing bets,” Twill says. “Does Bahamut let his followers gamble?”

“That would be a question for Elspeth, but I assume not.”

Twill settles back under Kishore’s arm, a little unsure, but then Kishore nods and curves her arm closer. She’s seen Kishore in a similar position with several other Stoneblades, but never really thought she’d be allowed to get close, too. “Thank you,” she says again, this time softer.

Of course, Kishore doesn’t need to ask what she’s being thanked for. “You’re welcome, Twill.”

—

When Twill returns to the tavern she calls home, she heads straight to her room. Once the door is closed behind her, she slumps backwards against it. A long, deep sigh leaves her, and instead of making her feel empty, she feels fulfilled.

It was a good night. She’s so glad she got some one-on-one time with Kishore. They’re set to spar in the morning a couple days from now, and Twill’s looking forward to it.

She pushes away from the door and starts shedding her clothes. Something crinkles in her pocket, and she pulls out a small, folded square of paper. Her eyebrows furrow, and she untucks the folded corners. There’s slanting, scribbling handwriting on the paper. A letter, apparently. It’s addressed to her.

> Dear Twill,
> 
> Hi! This is Ameya! Did you notice me putting this note in your pocket? I bet you didn’t! Don’t worry, I didn’t take anything, since that would be kinda rude and my mom would ground me for a hundred years. 
> 
> Anyway, Mom says you’re the newest Stoneblade, and since I like to meet everyone she works with, I’m super glad you decided to come to the party. (I wrote this before the party, since I hoped you’d be there. This is the longest I’ve had to wait to meet a new recruit, so I’m extra hopeful!) 
> 
> If I didn’t get to talk to you tonight, then be sure to come back when there aren’t a bunch of people in our house, and we can hang out. Hope and Elspeth both like you, so that’s a good sign that I’ll like you, too! 
> 
> Mom told me that you’re from the north. I’ve never been super far north, but I think I could handle the cold. Goliaths do well in cold weather, you know! Do you like snow, or did you leave the north because there was too much? I like snow and rain and all sorts of weather. It would get boring if things were the same all the time, I think.
> 
> If you want to write me back, I would like that very much. Everyone in my house gets letters except for me. Sometimes when Mom is away for a long time she’ll send notes and stuff, but it’s not like getting a letter from someone else.
> 
> I hope you had fun at my house!
> 
> Love,
> 
> Ameya Maallinen, future Stoneblade

Twill grins. She plops down on her bed and rereads the letter. She’s never gotten a secret note before. This is something she’s going to hang onto for a very long time, she suspects. The simplest of treasures can have the most meaning.

Instead of going to sleep like she planned, she pulls out her mostly-unused notebook, and begins to write a response.


	2. Frail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fragility of life and how everyone meets it for the first time

Life is a frail thing–held together by the space between breaths.

—

**Roshanak - “Judith Beheading Holofernes”**

> The bandit captain is middle-aged, human, and he wears clothes and jewelry that belong to the people of her caravan. The dagger on his belt is her uncle’s; she recognizes the golden hilt, ceremonial more than practical. Her uncle said that one day, the dagger will be hers.
> 
> An oily, ugly sheen coats everything the captain says and does. His eyes track her as she moves through the camp, dancing, refilling cups, indulging the catcalls and sloppy flirtations. Her smile won’t withstand much scrutiny, but the bandits are too drunk to notice.
> 
> So, she performs, because the audience is so willing to believe whatever they want. They don’t know where she’s from, the people she belongs to. They won’t know until it’s too late. 
> 
> That night, when most of the camp is asleep, Roshanak follows the captain into his tent. His eyes are hungry and possessive. He grabs at her waist; she grabs the dagger and plunges it into his throat, his chest, his gut. Arterial spray stains her dress and her skin.
> 
> She could pour out his blood a dozen times over, and it would be nothing when compared to the destruction he and his men have left in their wake.
> 
> Her uncle was supposed to give this dagger to her when she came of age. It was not meant to be an heirloom, inherited by a survivor.

—

**Elspeth - “Baptism by Fire”**

> She’s not used to making decisions that she can’t take back. Ever since she was little, she always tried her best to leave options, a back door, a way to escape. 
> 
> “Never cast a spell without your full intention,” her mother said when her magic first manifested. “There’s no room for hesitation. Dedicate yourself to your actions; if you don’t, you will die.”
> 
> The incantation spills from her lips; her hands tighten into fists. Light flashes over the gunslinger’s body, and radiant flames burn away any life left within him. 
> 
> Elspeth doesn’t want to die. Is this a proper trade? 
> 
> There’s no honor in survival. She can’t tear her eyes away from the smoking body, and she can’t take a deep enough breath.
> 
>  _Smite evil wherever it is found._ Will she have to dismantle all of Emon, brick by brick? Does she have the strength for that? How many more people will she have to kill, in order to blot out Tiamat’s spreading shadow? Where is the justice in that, in her hand being forced to take a path of destruction?

—

**Kishore - “Go for the Throat”**

> Everything’s gone quiet in Kishore’s head. The human is on the ground, chest rising and falling. Blood pours from his temple; it doesn’t scare her, because she knows that blunt force can sometimes tear skin. That wasn’t her goal, but he left himself open, wasn’t guarding his face. 
> 
> He’s older than her by at least a decade. She’s taller, but her features are still softened with youth, even if that youth is blighted. He didn’t expect her to be so fast. She wasn’t fast enough when they first pushed her into the pit.
> 
> One foot in front of the other now, to finish what they started for her. The echo of her breath is loud in her head, while the shouts and jeers of the crowd come to her through layers of mud and stone.
> 
> Slow, and deliberate, she presses one knee on his neck. There’s a moment of tension, then his windpipe collapses, crushed under her weight. He never regains consciousness; she stays where she is, perched over him, long after he’s dead.
> 
> The handlers drag her away, and their harsh commands cannot cut through the fog surrounding her head.

—

**Hadrean - “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”**

> How dare they? How could they do this? Who was it that sold him to the highest bidder? Which of his _friends_ took his trust and dashed it against the rocks, a wave breaking apart at a cliff face?
> 
> They’re touching part of him, part of his soul. Running careless hands over his pelt while he thrashes against the iron binding him. The metal aches and stings–is that something else they were told, how cold iron burns fey-blooded creatures? Did they research how to trammel him? 
> 
> It’s not like being ill. In this human form, he’s caught all sorts of colds and flus that he never experienced as a seal. He knows what illness feels like in this land-walking body. But his experiences are so limited, and it’s the closest comparison he has. They turn his soul over and over in their hands, passing it from one person to the next, a trio of humans at a table, marveling at their new purchase. It’s not right, any of this. Rot takes root in the place where his pelt used to be _his._
> 
> Hadrean wants to plead, to beg for them to stop, but there are no words that can pass through the voiceless agony in his throat.
> 
> One of them approaches; the edges of his vision being to darken, and then there’s nothing but red. Red in the blood and burns on his wrists from the manacles, red skin, red bruises, red in the man’s shirt who seems to be leading the others, red anger, burning boiling baffling, volcanic under waves of salt…
> 
> The brave one who got too close is now a dead one. The other two hurt him, but anything they do to him now is just a dull nothing. He’s already been hurt deeper than they’ll ever be able to reach again.
> 
> The first selkie who shed their pelt and walked the earth was a fool, and Hadrean even more so, for never going back home when he had the freedom.

—

**Twill - “What Dance of Hades Shall I Do”**

> The moon is full. Clouds drift across the sky, a gossamer haze over the moon’s bright, silver face. 
> 
> Twill hasn’t seen another person in nearly a year. About three months back, she heard a group of people approaching from the south, following the old hunting trails that lace through the edges of the wilderness. That was a sign that she needed to move; she’s farther west now than she’s ever been. Mountains pierce the distant horizon.
> 
> She’s found an old bothy–one of the handful of owner-less shelters that dot the landscape, free to use for anyone in need. This one is half collapsed, buried beneath a fallen tree and rocks. It isn’t pretty, but it’s better than building her own shelter or going without. 
> 
> There are plenty of gaps and cracks in the roof, but it won’t rain tonight. Twill likes the scant moonlight that filters in, even if it’s pale in comparison to the small fire she coaxed into life. Settling down into her furs, with enough food in her belly to sustain her another day, Twill closes her eyes
> 
> A twig snapped underfoot, sound ricochets through the dark, Twill’s hands tighten around her glaive. She emerges from the bothy’s crooked doorway. Maybe she should say something, but she hasn’t said a word in days. Every time she does this–goes without speaking–she wonders if she’ll lose the ability.
> 
> Beneath the shadows of ancient pines, someone raises a bow and fires an arrow at her. It cuts past her head, nearly hitting one of her horns. It’s not a warning shot, she’s seen those before. They begin drawing back another arrow, and she roars, startling them, making their fingers fumble. Her breath leaves her in a plume of vapor; she charges at them. The blade of her glaive cuts a silver arc through the air.
> 
> -
> 
> Twill doesn’t stay in the bothy that night. It doesn’t sit right with her, sleeping in a place that probably belonged to the body outside. Once dead, she didn’t look long enough to notice much about them, beyond their furs and scuffed boots. 
> 
> She should feel more about this–about the similarities in their situations, her and her attacker. No, there’s nothing there. They attacked first. Twill leaves the body for nature to reclaim. Someday, that will be her.

—

**Epiphany - “Nobody Fresher”**

> Her mother is the family’s chief assassin, as was her grandmother before her. Anargul had a knack for subtlety that Avani never could quite master. The family elders all thought it was strange, that the younger sister would follow in her mother’s path, while the older sister drifted. 
> 
> Avani never killed anyone, but Epiphany has. It’s almost funny how quickly after her death that her old life came back to bite her in the ass.
> 
> “Oh my gods,” she gripes while trying to wipe the blood from her hands. “See, this is why I didn’t fucking want you with me!”
> 
> Beyza hisses and shoves at Epiphany’s hands, stealing the cloth from her and dabbing at their own face. “You would’ve died before you got the first cell open and you know it,” they snap.
> 
> There are bodies at their feet, a half dozen people sent to kill Beyza and Knell, courtesy of Epiphany’s family. Beyza they want dead because they were with Epiphany when she freed her father’s gladiators, and Knell, because he just so happens to be letting Beyza stay in his house.
> 
> He’s currently in the process of dragging the bodies outside. Epiphany wonders if he’s gonna use them as fertilizer in his garden.
> 
> “They don’t know who you are, and none of them escaped,” he comments. “We should leave the city, even if they don’t know you’re alive again. They’ll learn eventually if we stay.”
> 
> “That’s what I’ve been saying for days,” Beyza reminds him, none too gently.
> 
> “Well sorry for feeling a bit off, I’ve never been given a whole new body before,” Epiphany says. It’s then that she notices her hands are shaking.
> 
> Knell and Beyza aren’t strangers to death. They may not have the same rich criminal history as Epiphany’s family, but they know their way around the shadows. Epiphany, for all her underworld knowledge, has never seen this much blood this close before. 
> 
> “I need to sit down,” she mutters as a wave of vertigo washes over her.
> 
> Knell drops the body he’s dragging. Beyza appears at her left, Knell at her right, and they all but carry her to a kitchen chair. Gods, it’s going to be weird being this short for the rest of her life. Avani was so tall, but this new body is tiny and she wants to riot. Well, she’ll want to riot once she doesn’t feel so faint.
> 
> Beyza hands her a glass of water; they leave bloody fingerprints on the outside of the glass, but Epiphany gulps down the water without pause.
> 
> “You alright?” Knell asks.
> 
> “I will be once we get the hell away from this city,” she grunts, and then drops her head down between her knees. Her antlers end up getting in the way, and both Knell and Beyza rub her back when she lets out a pitiful whine.

—

**Emery - “Coup de Grâce”**

> The ritual chamber appears empty, but there’s a deep, undulating keen coming from inside. Emery watches other cultists walk past; most don’t notice the sound or seem to care. 
> 
> Earlier that day, a select number of people were called to the chamber. His mother was among them. Neither he nor Elspeth asked what happened–they know well enough that they won’t get answers. And the answers they do get aren’t anything they want to hear.
> 
> Emery waits until the corridor is clear, then ducks into the chamber. He shuts the door behind him, heart in his throat. There’s a break in the crying, a clamped-off sound, but then it resumes, softer than before but just as harrowing. He waits a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened space.
> 
> “Hello?” he asks, almost expecting his voice to echo. It doesn’t; if anything, the sound falls flat, and shifts across the floor before dissipating into nothing.
> 
> Another stuttered cry. It’s coming from behind the front altar. Emery shifts forward, trying to keep in mind all the things Mom told him about being stealthy. It’s slow going, and his heart might very well pound out of his chest. 
> 
> “Please.” A whisper, rasping, desperate.
> 
> Emery hesitates. He shouldn’t be here. If he doesn’t see whoever is here, if he leaves, then he’s safe, isn’t he? There’s so much more to lose if he stays.
> 
> He steps around the altar.
> 
> There’s a body, most of a body, and he isn’t sure how they’re still alive. He can’t tell their race or age–the burns are so severe. He takes a wobbly step forward, and slumps to the ground at their side. Hands hover uselessly over hurts he can’t fix.
> 
> “What happened? How–?” he chokes. Stupid questions, why even ask? He knows what happened. The Prismatic Queen doesn’t forgive, and she demands blood when slighted or wronged. Maybe this person was trying to leave, maybe they were a slave who tried to be more. Maybe they’re just a placeholder for a person who died too quick.
> 
> Logically, he knew immolation was a terrible way to die. What he knows, and what he sees now–how can he even try to process this?
> 
> Cracked eyelids open, and dark eyes waver before they focus on him. “Please.”
> 
> Emery swallows, and nods. “I’m so sorry,” he says, vision blurring. “I’ll be,” a hitch in his breath, “I’ll be quick.” He reaches for the dagger hidden at the small of his back. Just in case, his mother always says. 
> 
> “Thank you,” they say, almost a sigh.
> 
> Tears drip off his chin. He readies his dagger.

—

**Kestrel - “Make Death Proud to Take Us”**

> Kestrel observes the spaces where light meets dark. He walks that razor-thin edge, looking over both sides of the abyss. 
> 
> He is going to die someday. Maybe he’ll die like his mother, wasting away, more pain than person. Maybe Ioun will find answers he cannot see, and save him from the deterioration in his soul. Maybe he’ll find those answers himself.
> 
> There’s a natural order to the world, to life and death, and he knows that his affliction isn’t normal. It’s unnatural, like how undead are unnatural. Extending life beyond its proper limit is just as bad as ending life too soon. It’s a dangerous road he walks, trying to find the balance between wanting to live and not disrupting the gods’ will.
> 
> Because of this, because he knows what the inside of a grave looks like, he’s never killed another person. Between temple life and his time at university, there have been very few occasions where he’s had to fight for his life beyond what he does every day. 
> 
> There will be a time when he has to choose between his life and the life of another, or the life of someone he loves. It’s only natural, to choose oneself over an enemy. Kestrel won’t waver. His acceptance of his own death does not mean he’ll let the universe walk over his prone body, taking what it wants. 
> 
> Ioun will grant him the wisdom to know when it’s his time. Until then, he’ll live and fight and learn and maybe kill, maybe love, maybe find answers to the questions he doesn’t yet know how to ask.


End file.
